A Connecticut Yankee in King Cotton's Court
by N. Y. Smith
Summary: A trip to Tennessee turns into something unexpected.
1. Under the Shadow of the Pyramid

Chapter 1 Under the Shadow of the Pyramid

  
  


"He's got them eating out of the palm of his hand," Josh Lyman raised his voice so it could be heard over the cheering crowd while static crackled over the line. He retreated into the first hall of the backstage labyrinth.

"Of course," Donna Moss straightened the picture on her desk, telephone receiver pinned between ear and shoulder. "When will you be back?" Her fingers lingered over the image of his face.

"Late. The President said something about a rope line," she imagined him trying to pull out his schedule with his cell phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder.

"I'll reschedule your morning," she chuckled.

"I wish," he sighed. "Leave it . . ." His breath hitched.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he lied, rubbing his hand gently over his Rosslyn scar while backing against the wall.

"You had caffeinated coffee, didn't you?"

He tipped his head back and tried to smile. "Yeah."

"And now you have heartburn . . ."

"Yeah." He tugged at his tie, which felt tighter than usual.

"Josh," she dragged one into three syllables, "you've got to start taking care of yourself."

"I will," he grimaced, "I promise." His breath ran short. "I've got to go, Donna. See you tonight."

Without waiting for her retort he disconnected and tried to slip the phone into his pocket but it clattered on the concrete. His knees buckled and he slid toward the floor. A face appeared-some local Democrat who'd been granted a backstage pass.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, strong hands controlling his downward slide.

"Pressure," he panted. "Can't breathe."

She disappeared for an instant and more people materialized.

"Josh Lyman?" she asked and he nodded. "I'm Doctor E. H. Taylor, Josh," she slipped the oxygen mask over his face while a paramedic slit his shirt and coat sleeves and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm. He pumped the rubber bulb a few times then called out the numbers before repeating the process on the other arm.

"Have you taken any medication today other than those prescribed for you?"

He shook his head. "What's wrong with me?" he panted.

She smiled that doctor smile. "Too soon to tell. We're gonna need the Wing," she glanced at the paramedic who spoke into the microphone on his shoulder. "Breathing any easier?"

"How're you doing, kid?" Leo McGarry's craggy face appeared behind the doctor before Josh could answer.

He grimaced as he was strapped into a basket litter and the litter was strapped to a stretcher. He slipped his hand from beneath the restraint.

"Donna," Josh Lyman panted, clawing until the oxygen mask dangled slackly below his chin, "she was the one, Leo." Face as pale as the white sheets on the stretcher, the Deputy Chief of Staff coughed again between gasps. "Tell her." He coughed again, lips fading to blue. "Promise."

Leo McGarry mustered a deathbed smile. "You can tell her yourself . . ."

Josh Lyman's fingers seized at the older man's lapel. "Promise."

Wordlessly, McGarry clutched Josh's cold hand between his own and nodded as the fire in Lyman's eyes began to fade.

"We have to go," the physician prompted.

"Yeah," McGarry obeyed, limping behind the gurney through the corridors and down the ramps to the wind-swept heliport beside the absurd golden pyramid on the banks of the Mississippi.

"I swear to you, Noah, I've offered myself in his place a thousand times. I've begged God to take me instead," Leo McGarry muttered as the son of an old friend was slipped through the belly doors and the helicopter ascended into the golden sunset. Hobbling back into the building, he barked into his cell phone, "Margaret, put Donna on the next flight to Memphis."


	2. Lacemending

  
  


Chapter 2 Lacemending 

  
  


"Come on, come on," Donna Moss muttered, craning her neck to see what was causing the crowd in the jetway to stop. After an instant, which seemed like a year, she was making progress again.

"Donna!" she heard as she stepped into the waiting area. "Donna Moss!"

She followed the voice to its owner. "Mr. Taylor," she shook his hand then followed him down the concourse. "Thank you so much for . . ."

"I'm just sorry it's under these circumstances, Miss Moss," his face was burnished mahogany, eyes a soft brown. It was amazing that such a gentle voice could emanate from this towering man. "What's the last you've heard?" he asked as he slid behind the wheel of his SUV and the engine roared to life.

Donna swallowed. Hard. "He was still in surgery." A tear slid down her face. "But that was," she looked at her watch, "thirty minutes ago."

Taylor held out a tissue and she dabbed away the wetness on her face. "No news is usually good news in these situations, Miss Moss."

Donna smiled wanly and turned her face to the window, not really seeing the scenery flash by, startled when they came to a halt in the circle drive of an office building. She stepped onto the pavement, head tilting to read the sign above the door. "Baptist Heart Institute," she said heavily. "Are they good?"

"Yes," he nodded, then held the door before following her inside. "Very, very good."

She nodded, following her guide to a private waiting room. "Leo?" she choked before he pulled her into an embrace.

"They're taking him off bypass now," he patted her arm then pulled her into the chair next to his while Taylor nodded a farewell to Leo. "Shouldn't be long."

The minute hand on the clock crawled another 450 degrees before a scrub-clad figure appeared in the doorway. "How is he?" Leo jumped to his feet but the doctor waved him back to his seat before perching on the littered magazine table after making introductions.

She propped her elbows on her knees. "Mr. Lyman is in Recovery. We'll send him on to the ICU after he wakes up."

"When can I see him?" Donna's eyes were round and fearful.

"You're Donna Moss?" To Donna's nod she continued, "I'll take you back when we're through here."

"What happened?" Donna looked from the doctor to Leo then back to the doctor, who proceeded upon Leo's nod.

"Mr. Lyman presented with shortness of breath and chest discomfort. From his file that Dr. Bartlett sent me, heart attack was not a likely cause. During the diagnostic phase we found a large sacculated aneurysm on the pulmonary artery-the same area that was damaged at Rosslyn. During the surgery I repaired the aneurysm we visualized during the diagnostics as well as two more that would soon be causing a problem."

"And?" Leo prompted.

"There's something else you should know," the doctor continued. "Our plan was to put him on bypass then repair the aneurysms surgically." The doctor studied her hands a moment. "While we were prepping him in the OR, the wall of the aneurysm dissected-it burst. It was five minutes before we were able to start the cardio-pulmonary bypass."

Donna's hand flew to her face, her hand hiding her mouth.

"What about brain damage?" Leo asked quietly, gathering Donna's other hand in his.

"Probably not; but you should be prepared for the possibility."

"Is there anything else?"

"Let me say that whoever patched him up the first time did a great job. The amount of damage to the pulmonary artery was extensive and severe. Sewing it back together must have been a lot like lacemending."

"So, this won't be the last time," Donna whispered.

"No."

"When?" Leo asked.

The doctor shook her head. "It's hard to say. His best bet is to take care of himself."

Donna chuffed and cut her eyes to Leo, who smiled ruefully.

A chart appeared in the doctor's hand, courtesy of the scrub-clad nurse now exiting the waiting room. The notebook occupied the doctor's attention for at least a minute.

"What now?" Donna whispered.

"Would you like to see him?" A small smile returned to the doctor's face.

Donna returned the smile and nodded.

The doctor led them down the hall, past the "Recovery Room" sign. Josh lay in the center bed of three, pallor accentuated by the bright fluorescent lights. The surgical gown had been pulled up onto his shoulders, but the monitor leads pulled it down enough in the front so that the first suture staple gleamed. Bile rose in Donna's throat, and she swallowed back the foul taste and the memories prompted by the sickeningly familiar sights, sounds, and smells.

"You okay?" Leo tugged on her arm. "You look a little off."

"I'm fine," she swallowed, following the doctor to Josh's bedside while Leo flanked them. She slid her hand atop his and the heart monitor quickened. "Josh," she called gently.

The patient hummed and his eyes worked beneath closed lids.

Donna leaned closer. "Josh, wake up."

His head lolled to the side and he grimaced, moaning softly as his eyes blinked open.

"Hey," she smiled, face just inches from his.

He smiled in return, whispering only her name before his voice played out.

"Don't try to talk," she comforted, but he frowned and she lowered her ear to his lips. 

"Donna," he took several rapid breaths, nuzzled his cheek against hers, rasping breathlessly, "Marry me."


	3. The Ides of March

Chapter 3 The Ides of March

The words hung in the air for several seconds before he felt her breath tickle his ear, "Yes."

He pressed his cheek to hers, their tears mingling. "Love you," he murmured.

She pulled her face back to enough to meet his fuzzy gaze. "Love you."

The heart monitor beeped two score and more before McGarry gently smoothed the patient's hair.

"Leo," Josh exhaled.

"How're ya doing, son?"

"Could've been worse." He swung his gaze to his mentor, right eye-under a drooping lid-lagging behind the left. To Leo's cocked eyebrow he explained. "Ides of March."

Leo's grin didn't quite erase the worry from his face. "Julius Caesar would say you're damn lucky."

Josh grinned-or grimaced, it was difficult to tell-then locked gazes with 

Donna before his eyelids fluttered shut. His face relaxed, breathing eased until, on the edge of sleep, he murmured, "Very lucky."

He awoke the next three mornings in the noisy fishbowl of the stepdown unit. On the fourth morning he awoke to the twilit quiet of a private suite. Leo McGarry and his bottomless checkbook, though now back in Washington, had, obviously, struck again.

"Good morning," Donna cooed on the morning of the tenth day, face fresh-scrubbed, hair pulled back into a pony-tail as she smoothed the duvet on the regular bed in the next room.

"Hey," he greeted, wrapping his hand around hers when she slipped to his bedside.

"How do you feel?" she pressed her lips to his forehead, stealing a kiss while checking for a fever.

"Sore," he grunted while raising the bed to a sitting position. "But not like before."

"It's amazing how much damage the concussion of a gunshot wound can do." Dr. E. H. Taylor' voice preceded her into the room. "How are you feeling?"

"When can we go home?" Josh grinned.

The doctor warmed her stethoscope in her hand before applying it to his back. "Feeling that well or that bored?"

"Yeah," he answered, leaning back while she inspected the new scar on his chest. Her touch was warm and firm.

"Looks good," she announced, stabbing at a handheld computer.

"Well," Josh prodded. "When can we go home?"

"That depends upon what you mean by home." Taylor pocketed the computer. "No air travel for at least a month and I doubt you're up to a four-day train trip."

"What about a hotel?" Donna asked. "Or renting a house?"

"Those are possibilities, but Leo and I think we've come up with a better solution."

Josh and Donna stared, fish-eyed.

The doctor swallowed. "You can come home with me."

"With you?" Donna finally responded. "Wouldn't that be a lot of trouble?"

The doctor shook her head. "My husband and I have a little farm out in Rosemark. Not long after we moved back here we converted the carriage house into a two-bedroom guest house. It's yours for as long as you need it."

"How much?" Josh asked warily.

The doctor smiled broadly. "That's between Leo and me."

The drive was only twenty miles but Josh Lyman had begun to list like a ship after five. By ten miles his head had sunk into Donna's lap. By fifteen miles he'd crossed his arms in front of his chest, desperately trying to hold his severed sternum together. By the twentieth mile, crunching up the gravel drive to the Taylor farm, he'd hiss at every bump despite the Demerol he'd taken before the trip. When they did finally stop, he held his breath, fearing another jostle.

"We're here," the doctor announced, then he heard gravel crunching underfoot and soft voices. The face of a young man appeared in the opened passenger door, gently pulling Josh to an upright position. Gingerly, he slid out of the SUV, standing still until the dizziness passed.

"Are you okay?" Donna appeared at his side, sliding her arm beneath his and leading him down a brick path. The gentle breeze was chilly and carried with it the scent of greening, of spring in the offing. Stars shone brightly, diamonds on velvet, and he could hear grasses rustling somewhere outside of the pool of light around the small cottage before them. With a groan, he lifted his foot over the worn door sill, allowing himself to be led to a soft bed framed by cotton-candy curtains. Donna kneeled, pulling the shoes from his feet, then helped navigate the step up to the bed. He sank heavily into the crisp softness, surrendering almost immediately to the exhaustion brought on by even this small trip. Donna pulled the coverlet under his chin and extinguished the light. Slipping quietly to the other bedroom she found her luggage and their hostess who offered her a tall, icy glass of tea with a greeting.

"Welcome to Hickory Grove."


	4. Legendary Southern Hospitality

  
  


Chapter 4 Legendary Southern Hospitality 

  
  


Donna Moss nestled into the crisp softness of the half-canopied bed that was a far cry more comforting than the hotel bed in which she'd slept-when she'd actually slept-for the duration of her most recent hospital vigil. A slight breeze stirred the netting that draped the canopy and she heard a step on the entry-way tile followed by light footfalls on the wide-planked hardwood floors. She grabbed her robe and, after frowning at her reflection in the float-glass mirror of the rose-carved changing table, followed the sound to the kitchen, where she found her hostess, steaming coffee cup already on the snowy linen table cloth.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to disturb you!" Blue-hazel eyes widened in surprise.

"No," Donna blushed slightly, "I was just enjoying the nice, soft bed."

The surgeon smiled. "There's nothing quite like a feather tick, is there?"

"Tick?" Donna's voice rose. "A bug?"

"No, a feather pad over the mattress." The doctor's face crinkled warmly as she loaded the refrigerator with covered bowls of vegetables and what looked like a pot roast. "Cool in the summer, warm in the winter, soft every other day." She nodded to the table. "Don't let your coffee get cold."

"Dr. Taylor . . ."

"Evan," the doctor corrected, arranging bananas, apples and oranges in a large bowl on the table. "Call me Evan."

"Doctor," Donna blushed again, "Evan, it's enough that you're letting us live here . . ."

"G'morning," Josh panted, leaning against the doorframe to the master bedroom, flannel-shirted arms folded across his knitting breastbone. 

"Hey," Donna popped to her feet, but remained by her seat when Josh waved her off with a single hand. 

He plodded from the door to the table-favoring his fleece-clad right leg, then lowered himself, gingerly, into the chair Donna had pulled out while their hostess poured another cup of coffee from the carafe on the counter. Bypassing the delicate handle, he wrapped his left hand around the china cup and sipped while his right hand lay in his lap. "Thanks," he said quietly-not meeting the doctor's predatory stare.

"How long have you had this weakness on your right side?"

"Since Rosslyn," he explained to the wild flowers on the coffee cup. "Some mornings . . . and when I'm tired."

While he spoke, the doctor had moved to kneel in front of him. He returned the squeeze when she gripped his hand; pressed down when she lifted his right foot; he knew the procedure only too well.

"Headaches?" He shook his head while she peered at both his pupils. "Shortness of breath?"

"No," he puffed, then grinned sheepishly. "No more than usual."

She patted his hand and nodded, moving toward the wide front door, blonde hair backlit by the fanlight over the door. "If you need anything, the phone number for the house is on a pad by the phone." She continued in the sweep of the half-opened door. "I have late rounds but I'll check on you before I go to town. Jack is flying and the kids are in school, but Muddear will be home." And with a snick of the door latch, she was gone.

Donna disappeared into her room, returning with a handful of amber vials. She glanced at the label of each before extracting the appropriate dosage and depositing it in his outstretched hand. She drew a glass of water from the faucet and he downed each medication with only a little difficulty swallowing.

"Hungry?" the sun from the window made her hair glow.

He pushed the cup handle around like a carousel. "Maybe later."

"Josh . . ."

"Donna . . ." he nearly begged and she nodded acquiescence. He tugged at the flannel shirt, pulling its weight away from the healing wound. An ancient clocked ticked away the seconds while a bird cooed somewhere outside. "Alone at last," he said ruefully.

"Alone at last," she smiled warmly and he returned the expression, albeit a bit more wanly. The clock wound up and tolled eight times. 

She slipped her hand into his, reveling in its warmth. "Josh?"

"Hum?"

"There's something I need to know."

He straightened with a wince. They hadn't discussed his proposal at all while he was hospitalized. "What?"

She smiled. "What's a mud ear?"


	5. Mud Ear

Chapter 5 Mud Ear

CJ Cregg's lips split into a toothy grin. ". . . And on a personal note, I'm happy to tell you that Josh Lyman was discharged yesterday from The Baptist Heart Institute in Memphis. He'll be spending a few weeks at a private farm near the city before returning to the White House."

Katie Walker's hand shot into the air. "Why so long, CJ?"

"Katie, he's just had major vascular surgery two weeks ago. He won't be cleared to fly for another three months and it will be at least three weeks before he's up to the trip by car or rail."

"CJ," Jason Whitney's voice rose above the rest. "Can you tell us anything about where he's staying?"

"Yes, I could tell you a great deal about it, Jason," her face hardened. "That's a full lid, folks. See you tomorrow."

CJ Cregg walked as fast as her heels would allow down the corridor to her office.

"CJ?" Danny Concannon sprinted behind her, panting as he caught up.

"I'm not telling you anything, Danny," she warned.

"Good, 'cause I already know." She pivoted and glared at him but he continued. "Hickory Grove in Rosemark, Tennessee, is the family home of Colonel Jackson Taylor, US Air Force, retired, and his wife, Dr. Evangeline Hall Taylor, also retired Air Force and Chief of Surgery of The Baptist Heart Institute. Colonel Taylor is a Senior Pilot for FedEx and Dr. Taylor is a pioneering cardio-thoracic surgeon and good friend of Dr. Abigail Bartlet. They, and their five children, live at Hickory Grove-a thousand-acre farm that has been in Taylor's family since they share-cropped it after the Civil War."

Cregg's eyes dropped to the floor. "Then you know everything, don't you, Danny?" she said acidly.

"No, I don't, CJ," he grabbed her arm and her eyes met his when he spoke again. "I don't know the only thing that matters: how's Josh?"

Late afternoon's golden rays were not enough to tint the pallor on Josh Lyman's face as he shivered in an overstuffed chair near a double-width window overlooking a field spiked with the gray stalks of cotton plants from the previous harvest.

Donna Moss sat on the arm of the chair, pressing the backs of her fingers to his temple. "Do you have fever?"

He shook his head. "Just cold," he whispered, tugging to his chin the soft, ancient quilt she'd draped over him. "I thought it was supposed to be warm in the South," he grinned wanly.

"It's a cool spring, according to Buddy Sanders."

"Who's Buddy Sanders?"

"The County Agent," Donna deadpanned.

Josh grinned wanly. "You mean, like Hank Kimball?"

Donna shook her head, open mouth interrupted by a loud thunk from the fireplace.

"What the hell?" Josh struggled to his feet, following Donna to the metal door covering the woodbox.

Another thunk startled them and Donna quickly unlocked the small door, a mahogany face smiling from the outside.

"Muddear thought you might be cold," the face belonged to a young man about sixteen. The outer door closed and, in an instant, opening the front door revealed the rest of the young man. "She sent me to start a fire for you." He moved to step over the threshold but stopped. "Is that okay?"

"S-sure," Donna stammered and the youth, whose head nearly brushed the top of the doorway, kneeled on the old brick and stoked the hearth.

"I'm Jebose Taylor," he explained over his shoulder.

The house guests introduced themselves.

"My sisters, Bechi and Chigozi, have been dying to get out here," he continued slyly, "to see you for themselves." Flames licked at the wood. "They're nosy." He nodded toward the window where two more faces peeked in.

"Curiosity is a good quality," Donna said, smiling quietly.

The young man dusted his hands in the fireplace, then stood. "Not in little sisters," he grinned wryly. "Anyway, Muddear wanted me to ask you if you needed anything-- before dark sets in."

"Thank you, um, Jebose?" Donna confirmed his name. "I can't imagine anything we could possibly need after your mom . . ."

"I can," Josh interrupted and the young man's eyebrows rose. "What in the hell is a Mud Ear?"

"I am she," a slight figure appeared in the still-open door, tugging two teenage girls-the window-peekers-behind her. "I'm Eugenie Taylor." She held out her hand, her tiny grip firm.

Josh towered over her-Jebose looked like a giant in comparison. Her carriage was steel but her voice was velvet. "And these busybodies are my grandchildren."

"It's very kind of you to share your hospitality with us," Donna blushed while Josh murmured concurrence, then slowly lowered himself into the nearest chair.

"You're quite welcome," the older woman's eyes were sharp and clear. "Dr. Bartlet was very kind to Jackson and Evangeline when he had his surgery."

"You know the First Lady?" Josh's voice betrayed weariness but also curiosity.

The older woman peered into the refrigerator. "She repaired my son's aneurysm back in '91-after the Gulf War." Satisfied that it was well-stocked, she shooed the children out of the door. "She's a fine woman."

"Yes, she is," Josh said firmly, looking at Donna. "A fine woman." His eyes lingered for a moment before returning to their guest.

"Well, ring the house if you need anything-the number's next to the phone." The visitor paused at the door, realizing the house guests were trying not to stare at her and her ears.

She sighed a big sigh, rolled her eyes before explaining, as if to small children, as she walked out the door, "It's short for Mother Dear."


	6. Tea With Alice

Chapter 6 Tea with Alice

  
  


"I swear to you, Leo, Donnatella Moss was a Warrior Queen in another life," Josh Lyman declared, head propped up on a sea of pillows beneath a pleated canopy. "She is ruthless in pursuit of an objective."

"And what would that current objective be, Josh?" Leo asked.

"Her current goal is simple: bore Josh."

"How can you be bored?" the older man asked. "Hickory Grove may be in the sticks but I understand it has the usual amenities-newspapers, telephone, Internet access, cable television."

"Oh, it does," Josh ranted. "But, Queen Donna has taken control of all of that. She blocks all but the most inane of phone callers."

"Josh . . ."

"She censors the newspaper, Leo. She's only allowed me the Living and Sports sections since I left the hospital."

"Josh . . ."

"She's installed Net Nanny, Net Nanny, Leo, on my laptop and blocked all the news and political sites."

"Josh . . ."

"Most aggravating, though, is the cable situation: she's blocked CNN, Headline News, MSNBC, FoxNews, C-Span, everything. All she's left me is the movie channels, kids' channels and the standard networks. It's unbearable! I'm gonna have to put my foot down!" he concluded breathlessly.

Leo chuckled. "Don't you think she has your best interest at heart?"

"Of course she does," the younger man conceded with a gasp. "But, Leo . . ." His voice softened, slurring slightly.

Leo McGarry swallowed hard at the realization that his relentless protégé-who, during the campaign, had gone for days without sleep-- had become exhausted after such a short tirade. "Joshua," he called warmly.

"Hm?"

"Get some rest, okay?"

"Um-hm," Josh burrowed deeper into the pillows, the phone falling out of his hand while he thought about the canopy above him. It was blue, like the color of the sky, the color of her eyes, her eyes . . .

"He's asleep, Leo." Donna Moss picked up the phone then closed the heavy drapes in his bedroom against the noonday sun. "He fights it like a two-year-old."

"How's he doing?"

"Well," Donna pinned the phone between her shoulder and her ear and talked while she cleared away the lunch dishes. "He wakes up about eight and by the time he dresses, eats breakfast, walks for thirty minutes, pounds on the computer for about thirty minutes, talks to you guys for about thirty minutes, pausing to gasp for breath between each task, he's ready for lunch and an afternoon nap." She washed off their plates and stacked them in the drainer then picked up the dirty saucepan. "When he wakes up we start all over again."

"Is he ready to start easing back into things?"

The metal saucepan clanged loudly in the metal sink as it escaped Donna's wet grip. She propped her hands on the counter, closed her eyes and swallowed. Hard.

"Donna?" Leo called sharply. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she sniffled, pinching the bridge of her nose to staunch the threatening tears. "Just take it slow, Leo," she whispered. "Nothing that will get him too wound up." Her voice strengthened with every word.

"And what would that be?" he chuckled and she chuffed. "I'll email him something this afternoon."

"You'll have Margaret email it, you mean," she teased.

"Yeah."

"Thanks, Leo," her voice went watery again. "Thanks for everything."

"Ah," he said, "it's what friends do for sons of old friends."

"It's more than that, Leo. It's more than that for him, too."

"I know," his voice softened then he cleared his throat. "Margaret will be sending that information in the next few minutes. And Donna?"

"Yeah?"

"You're quite a dame." The dial tone cut off her reply. 

She returned the phone to its cradle then shuffled to the bedroom where she found Josh fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. "What are you doing?"

"Practicing," Josh's fingers worked thickly, trying clumsily to slip the button into the hole and succeeding only after a prolonged effort. "Ta-da!" he said sarcastically. "At this rate it will only take me an hour to get dressed. Of all the 'neural processes' to have dropped down the rabbit hole, buttons would not have been my choice. I much preferred forgetting how to tie bow ties."

"It could have been worse," she stretched out on his left side, propping her head on her right arm. He raised his eyebrows.

"Zippers," she explained saucily.

"Now that would have been infinitely more fun." He had almost finished the next button.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Nah," he started on the next button. "Just had to get horizontal."

She ran her finger down the healing incision. "Still hurt?"

"Just clicks a little when I move suddenly." He focused on her hand, then folded it between his, kissing the ring he put on it only two weeks before.

"I love my ring," she stroked his wrist with her thumb. "It was sweet of your mother to bring it with her."

"I've wanted you to have it for a long time," he said, quietly. "But I'd understand if you wanted to reconsider."

She lifted her head to face him. "Why would I want to reconsider?"

He shook his head, eyes focusing on the canopy above, while his tongue darted out over suddenly parched lips. She took his scratchy chin in her hand and turned his gaze to hers.

"Josh, why would I want to reconsider marrying you?"

He blinked several times before closing his eyes. "After Rosslyn, I was left with numbness on the right side and I couldn't remember how to tie bow ties."

"Yeah, well your right side is almost normal now. And I like tying your bow ties."

"This time it was more: it was buttons and poker and the letter Z and some of the members of the House." His hands left hers and continued on his buttons. "What will it be next time, Donna?"

"Josh . . ."

"I'm forty-one years old and I can't remember how to button my shirt." His voice rose. "Next time I could forget how to eat or how to make love to you or . . ."

"Stop it." Donna sat up, cross-legged. "Post-surgical depression is very common . . ."

"I'm not depressed, Donna." He tried to push himself up on his elbows but failed with a grunt. "Okay, maybe I'm a little depressed but I'm also being realistic."

"Why start now?"

He blinked, rapidly, mouth opening and closing noiselessly. "Excuse me?"

Her eyes flashed, "I mean it, Josh. You certainly weren't being realistic when you agreed to help an unknown New England governor become President of the United States."

He pushed himself higher on his pillows.

"And you really were being realistic when you hired a silly girl with a million majors and no qualifications."

"Donna . . ."

"Let's not forget how realistic you were when you tried to fix the Church of the Nativity on Christmas Eve. Or added funding for autism research. Or pocketed the Defense of Marriage Act. Or just deciding, day after day, that your best revenge against the heartless bigots who tried to murder you is to simply get up and live another day. Oh, yeah, you're so realistic."

His head lolled back with a sigh and he ran the tip of his tongue across his parched bottom lip. Suddenly, he grasped her hand and pressed it roughly to his bared chest.

She flinched, the staples holding him together making depressions in her hand. She tried to wrench free but he held her firm with a grimace. "This, Donna, this is my reality," he said sharply. "It's my yesterday, my today and my tomorrow."

"That's not all there is to you, Josh," she murmured, face lowered over his, hair forming a golden curtain around them.

"Maybe not," he admitted, eyes glistening. "But, right now, it's all I have the energy to see."

She smoothed gentle kisses across his moistened eyelids, pressed her temple to his, breath warming his ear, "Then look through my eyes."

He pulled her close, drawing what comfort he could, but Hope was nowhere in sight.


	7. Divine Secrets of the Ladies' Auxiliary

Chapter 7 Divine Secrets of the Ladies' Auxiliary

  
  


"I feel like something out of 'Gone With the Wind,'" Donna Moss adjusted, again, the flowered straw hat that now perched on her head, warm spring breeze twisting her gauzy skirt around her knees.

"More like 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood,'" Evangeline Taylor teased, fabric magnolia adorning her straw chapeau. "Besides, if you get more than ten women together for any outdoor, afternoon tea or such-especially if we're at a church, we're required to wear something on our head that looks like we yanked it out of the garden. It's a Southern thing."

"I'm from Wisconsin." 

"When in Rome, dear . . ." Eugenie Taylor advised from beneath her crown of silk lilacs. "It could be worse. We could be wearing those cursed white gloves." 

"Now that was a joy," Evangeline agreed, tugging Donna to a seated pair of blue-haired matrons. "Ladies, may I present Miss Donna Moss?" She turned to Donna. "Donna, may I present Mrs. Bascom Yager . . ."

"Mary, dear," Donna shook the proffered hand that was as white as the glove that covered it.

". . . Mrs. Winston Brunswick . . ."

"Aren't you lovely?" a warm smile split the gentle face that shone like polished walnut. "I'm Mary."

Dr. Taylor continued, "Miss Mary Winston and Miss Mary Bascom are the oldest members of our Ladies Auxiliary."

"You could have gone all day without using the word 'old,' Evangeline," Mrs. Brunswick chided.

"We prefer 'wise,'" Mary Yager's eyes sparkled. "Now you go on," her hand shooed. "A politician's lady has to work the crowd."

Donna's eyebrow's shot up. "How did you . . ."

An elegant brunette slid along side them, "The Marys know everything about everybody," she warned with a bright smile. "I'm Candy Edwards."

"Candace, honey," Miss Mary Bascom began, "bless your heart, did you have to use those decaffeinated leaves in Virginia Rose's honey mint tea recipe? Virginia Rose is near ninety but she walked down to the river, herself, to pick the wild mint . . ."

Candy Edwards kneeled, full skirt perfectly billowed about her, "Now, Miss Mary, you know none of us needs all that caffeine."

"Besides," Evangeline Taylor tossed her head, "we were hoping it would keep you from noticing what we left out of the cucumber sandwiches."

"Evangeline, you are a born troublemaker," Mary Yager sputtered.

"I learned from the best," Evan Taylor tipped her tea glass towards the ladies. "Candy, don't we need . . .?" She eased away, tugging Donna and Candy with her.

"Bless you," the easygoing brunette grinned to Evangeline once they were in the relative privacy of the Hickory Grove United Methodist Church's kitchen.

"Just remember that the next time they have me cornered," Evangeline admonished. "Candy, have you met Donna . . ."

"Donna Moss," Edwards finished for the doctor. "Bryant said you were down here with Josh. How's he doing?"

Donna was a bit taken aback, "You know Josh? Bryant, oh my gosh, Bryant Edwards, Tennessee Eighth. I'm so sorry, I should have, I didn't realize, we met at . . ."

"Honey, calm down," the legislator's wife soothed. "It's okay, really."

"The Marys are leaving," Evangeline reported from the window.

"Well," Candy paused in the doorway, "let's see if we can shoo the rest of these ladies on home."

Donna followed the older women, smiling, shaking hands, enduring being called "precious" a thousand times until she found herself, back in the kitchen, separating different patterns of silver flatware into their respective chests. The group had dwindled to six, including herself, and hats had long ago been discarded, along with shoes, it seemed. They ranged in age from forties to sixties, Donna the exception, and, along with their shoes, had put aside their demure demeanor.

"I hear that, by the time he got home, 'Lizabeth Ann had the locks changed, his bags packed and waitin' for him outside the front door," Cassandra Roush, the wife of the county mayor, was a striking African-American woman, medium-length hair done in "sister locks." She rinsed off another plate, passing it down the line. "It must have been mortifying for her to see him on the news with that woman and the child."

"This isn't the first time His Honor, the City Mayor, has strayed," Althea Horton, wife of US Senator and NAACP board member Tom Horton, dried another plate and set it gently on the stack. "What made her finally toss out the old tomcat?"

"Sometimes, Althea, you just can't take it anymore." Donna shyly looked over the respondent, Ginger Whiting. Her snow white hair and perky demeanor didn't quite mask the sadness in the eyes of the former Tennessee First Lady. "At least she had the nerve to toss him out of the house and not just her bed." She blushed at the silence that ensued. "But not everyone's like that. Just look at Bryant and Jackson."

Candy Edwards lifted a stack of plates into the cabinet, scarlet face saying far more than words ever could. The other ladies' eyes grew round, prompting an explanation. "Bryant had a hard time, after his bypass surgery, bein' over forty and all and . . ." Her eyes overflowed and she wiped away the tears with a linen tea napkin. "But, that's all in the past," her smile returned, although bittersweet, as she put away the last of the dishes. "Ladies, I thank you."

Her dismissal prompted a round of hugs and luncheon promises before Donna and Evangeline began the stroll back to the farm in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. "You've been awfully quiet today," Taylor prompted.

Donna's hat brim followed her gaze groundward, her shoes scuffing the gravel alongside the road. "They're pretty overwhelming," she covered, eyes still cast down.

"They are forces of nature," Evangeline agreed, gazing down the road, "but that's not why you're quiet, is it?"

Donna shook her head, peering down the road occasionally. "He's not coming back as quickly as he'd expected. Physically."

"He's older now, Donna."

They passed a cattle gap, stepping carefully over the grate. "And his memory. He's having to relearn things . . ."

Taylor sighed but kept walking. "It's the ventricular bypass, Donna. Neural deficits are . . ."

"I know that; he understands that." Donna's eyes searched the older woman's face as they paused on the brick walkway to the house. "How do I make him accept it?"


	8. For the Want of a Nail

Chapter 8 For the Want of a Nail

  
  


He slipped into the half-lit dawn, releasing the door knob so that the bolt slid noiselessly into the jamb to avoid waking the beautiful woman who still slept peacefully in his bed. Through the morning mist, across the field beyond the barn, he could make out a family of deer-an antlered buck, a doe and a couple of yearlings. He grinned ruefully at the fact that, before he'd almost died this last time, he would not have been able to make those differentiations. The riotous morning avian cacophony did not disturb his reflections. Instead, it focused, calmed him in a way that the silence of the night-which was far from silent in his overactive brain-- never could. He stepped from the walk into the grass, pant cuffs sopping after only the few steps that took him past the tractor shed. He paused at the ringing sound of metal striking metal, peeking through the open door to find his host shaping a strip on an anvil. The odor of oil, gas and fresh dirt was strong inside the metal building.

Jackson Taylor didn't even look up from his work. "Good morning," he greeted in between pings. "Dented the housing on the power take off." He examined the metal tube before continuing.

Josh nodded silently. He'd also learned what the tractor PTO was, as well. "Can I help?" he heard himself asking.

Taylor eyed his guest, then the housing with a critical eye before using the housing to motion for Josh to follow. He fitted the housing around a thick metal rod. "Hold this in place while I fasten it down," he instructed, fitting a screw into its hole. It slipped and Josh hissed at the strain realigning it put on his scar. Taylor crooked an eyebrow, "You okay?"

Lyman nodded, then breathed as deeply as he could. "It's heavier than it looks."

"Most things in life are." Taylor rocked the cover, satisfied with its sturdiness, then replaced his tools in their respective spots. "But, with practice you get used to it."

A brown rabbit hop, hop, hopped to the door and looked in, seemingly shocked at the sight of Josh Lyman turning his hand to manual labor.

"'Bye, Daddy," three voices preceded their three owners who trooped through with their school books for kisses and hugs-well, a handshake for the scion of the family.

Josh's gaze followed the children, and their car until they were out of sight, regret and resignation clouding his face. Taylor recognized the expression, "Come on," he ordered, striding purposefully to a battered Bronco and coaxing the engine to life. In just a few moments they'd crackled down the gravel drive and the knobbed wheels were singing on the blacktop. "River's up," Taylor commented as they crossed over the muddy waterway that, according to the framed map in the carriage house, formed one boundary of the farm so large it could almost be called a plantation.

"Is that good?" Josh asked idly.

"Means more water for crops, but more bugs," Taylor grinned, then waved his hand toward the water covering one end of a field. "All in all, it's a good thing."

Josh nodded as if he understood.

Right arm draped over the steering wheel, left arm gesturing out of the driver's window, speedometer never dipping below sixty, Taylor chattered on about the community-the farms and their families and who was staying in farming and who was leaving it. Josh had no idea where he was and where he was going; for once in his life, he was just along for the ride.

Donna Moss rolled over to an empty pillow. "Josh?" She glanced toward the wardrobe: his shoes were gone. She peeked out of all the windows, not spying him on his morning walk, before dressing and stepping out into the cool, wet morning. "Josh?"

Evan Taylor's face appeared in a small second-story window above her. "Good morning!"

"Good morning," Donna returned the greeting. "Have you seen Josh?"

"Come on up," the doctor motioned with a paintbrush. "As you pass through the kitchen pick up a couple of cups of coffee and bring them with you."

Taylor strode purposefully through the rows of bins of seeds and nails, past stacks of striped overalls and fertilizer bags and filled two coffee cups from the pot that sat on a well-worn, but clean, counter. He handed Josh the cup with a John Deere logo, keeping for himself the cup that proclaimed, "Talk slow, but think fast."

"It's decaf," a creaky voice proclaimed from one of the two rocking chairs by the plate-glass windows.

"Now, Bascom Yager, that's all Sandra will let ol' Keith have," the occupant of the other rocking chair explained. "We know who holds the reins on that mule."

A strawberry-blond woman, seemingly about Donna's age, smiled pleasantly behind the counter, as though listening to an old, familiar song. Josh followed Taylor's lead and parked himself in a worn ladder-back chair with a split-oak seat.

"Mr. Winston, maybe that's because I'm so good she wants to keep me around for a long time," a giant of a man, well-built but at least ten years older than Josh, descended the spiral stairs from the gallery above, arms loaded with a box of leather gloves.

The woman snorted and the man's white pony tail jerked, bearded face contorted in mock umbrage. "Keep that up, woman, and I'll let you know who's really in charge."

The woman's voice sounded angry but her smile took off the edge. "Oh, I know who's in charge in our house, Keith Gilbert. She's five years old and her name is Tori!"

"Tori was Keith's fiftieth birthday present," Taylor explained.

Gilbert puffed up in the leather chair he'd pulled near the coffee pot, "Just 'cause there's snow on the mountain . . ."

"I had grandchildren by the time I was fifty, Keith," the man they'd called Bascom ragged.

"And I," the older black man, 'Mr. Winston' Brunswick, continued, "had my mind on other things by that time-things more appropriate for a man of my age and wisdom."

"That's not what Miss Mary says, Mr. Winston," Sandra grinned. "Weren't you forty-five when your boy Seth was born?"

"Well," the older scrubbed a hand across his face, pink showing through the ebony skin.

Josh had watched the exchange with some amusement. It was like watching CJ and Toby when they started on one of their well-oiled "shtiks."

"This is a fine topic to be discussing when we have a guest among us," Mr. Bascom chided. "So, Josh Lyman, where are your people from?"

"Wow, that's lavender!" Donna stopped short at the door of the bathroom. "I've never seen that color in a house this old."

"Ebubechi and Chigozi picked it out." Evangeline sipped from the cup. "When we moved here, we promised them that, just because they were living in a house that's one-hundred and fifty years old, they didn't have to live like they were one-hundred and fifty years old."

"Lavender," Donna cast her eyes about the room, the white of the footed tub contrasting with the high color of the walls.

"Bechi called it 'Georgia O'Keeffe lavender'-from her paintings." She dipped her brush in the can and daubed at a bare spot. "How are you doing? Ready to go home soon?"

Donna shrugged. 

"How's the cognitive dysfunction?"

"He's learned to button again, he's learned the letter 'z' and he's halfway through the Congressional face book, but I think poker is going the way of bow ties."

"How important is that?"

"Well, he was so bad at poker before it might actually save him some money." The corners of Donna's mouth turned up, but it wasn't a smile.

"What about his stamina?"

Donna studied the contents of her cup. "Shouldn't you be asking him this?"

"Would I get the truth?"

"No," they said together and Taylor continued, "so I'm asking you."

"It's been four weeks. He's pretty much up to full days, except for all the walking."

"The walking will be good for him." The brush glided silently over the wall. "And the stairs, too, I would imagine. The magic number is thirteen."

"Excuse me?"

"Thirteen stairs," the doctor explained, "when he can climb thirteen stairs without getting winded then it's safe to resume . . ."

"Oh," Donna turned scarlet. "Oh," she said more quietly, sadly.

Evangeline Taylor turned around, brush in mid-stroke, eyebrows raised, eyes meeting Donna's.

Donna looked away.

"Well," the doctor put the lid on her paint can, dumped the brush in a water can, "are we at the 'I love you too much to saddle you with a cripple like me' stage of recovery?"

"Yes," Donna sighed, relief evident. "What do I do?"

"Ride it out," the doctor prescribed, "and resist the almost overwhelming urge to apply a two-by-four to the side of that man's thick skull."

Donna almost laughed and it felt good.

"How old are they?" Josh asked incredulously as the occupants of the rocking chairs stepped, with surprising spryness, to an SUV driven by a man about Josh's age.

"They'll admit to being best friends for nearly ninety years."

Josh shook his head in awe.

"And still sharp as a tack, too," Gilbert warned, needlessly, for Josh had already been subjected to their interrogation about his family, farm policy and the President. "I hope I'm still that sharp at that age."

A derisive cough, the tone of which seemed very familiar to Josh, sounded from behind the counter and Gilbert crooked an eyebrow at his wife.

"Yeah, well, Josh gave as good as he got," Taylor observed. "Not too many folks can keep up with Mr. Bascom and Mr. Winston when they get to talking."

Gilbert nodded as he stood and sorted out the gloves. "Except for their wives."

"Nothing like a good woman to keep a man young," Taylor opined, cutting his eyes to Josh.

Gilbert met his wife's gaze, tender, soft. "Nothing like it."

Josh watched it all, a rancid heap of envy welling up inside him that was still too small to fill his empty heart.


	9. Loosahatchie River Breakdown

  
  
Chapter 9 Loosahatchie River Breakdown   
  


"We'll be back in the office on Wednesday, Leo," Josh Lyman stared at the shadows the lamp cast on the beamed ceiling while talking to his mentor. "Satterfield can keep until then."

"How are you doing?"

"Ready to be of use to somebody rather than focusing on my delicate health," Josh said flatly. "I'm fine, Leo," he placated the Chief of Staff.

"Is that what your doctor would tell me?"

"Yeah, I'm cleared for half-days in the office when I get back. I've got a note and everything."

McGarry's brow furrowed. Josh's voice was tepid, devoid of emotion. "How's Donna?"

Same flat tone. "She'll be fine when we get back to our old routine."

"Joshua Lyman, you're not about to do something monumentally stupid are you?"

"Leo, it's Friday night, why aren't you taking Jordan out to dinner?"

"I am, if that's any of your business." Damn, McGarry thought, detachment and deflection.

"Well, somebody should have a life." He swallowed, hard, plea for help dying on the tip of his tongue. "Go, Leo. We'll see you Wednesday."

Leo McGarry stared at the phone set, dial tone humming in the earpiece, terror rising like bile in his throat until he could do only one thing. "Margaret," he yelled. "Get me the First Lady." 

Donna shivered as the breeze wafted through the half-open window, bringing with it the sparkling sound of banjo, mandolin and guitar. 

"If they start playing the theme from 'Deliverance' I'm leaving," Josh winced as he shifted in his seat across the room.

"It's kind of nice," Donna cocked her ear toward the open window. "Seems to fit the setting."

"You got that right." He leaned toward the window and smirked. "I don't hear anything about prison or a train . . ."

"That's country and western music, silly," she swatted him.

"Then what's this?"

"Bluegrass, I think."

"Doesn't sound like a recording . . ."

"I don't think it is." Donna peered out the window. "There're lights on in the cotton house."

"Looks like somebody sitting outside . . ."

She stared at him until he met her gaze. "Josh, do you want to go see?"

"No," he shook his head. "Well, not unless you want to."

She continued to stare at him. He feigned disinterest unsuccessfully. She grinned and waited as he pushed himself out of his chair. The night was crisp and the April sky diamond-studded as they slowly made their way to the glowing barn-like structure. In addition to the music from inside, groups of two and three- men, women and young people playing guitars, banjos, mandolins and upright basses-- were perched on timeworn chairs and antique farm equipment in the incandescent twilight that spilled from the open door. Their songs told of days gone by, of love eternal and of love squandered.

He walked beside her, the woman wearing his ring and carrying his heart, even now building the little walls between them a little higher. She noticed his distance and pulled him closer, wrapping both hands around his arm which hung stiffly by his side.

"Joshua Lyman, come on in here."

Josh squinted and recognized the face of Bascom Yager peeking from the door of the cotton house. With a sigh he tugged Donna along into the light.

"Evangeline tells me you're leaving us next week," Mary Yager patted Donna's arm. "I know you'll be glad to get home."

"We'll sure miss you two," Mary Brunswick added, her husband nodding in agreement.

"We'll miss you, too," Donna replied, elbowing Josh.

"Yeah," he gasped, "it's been a . . . real change from the pace of Washington."

Donna rolled her eyes and the two older couples laughed at Lyman's discomfort. "He's a politician, alright," Winston Brunswick chuckled.

"Do you like bluegrass music?" Donna asked, leaning closer to the couples to be heard over the instruments.

"I prefer the blues, myself," Bascom Yager explained, "but our grandson plays the mandolin in the next band."

Applause and the appearance of the next band stopped their conversation. After listening a few minutes, Josh slipped out the back door, moving quietly to the outside edge of the bluish circle of illumination cast by a mercury vapor light.

"Not your cup of tea?" Evangeline Taylor nodded toward the source of the music.

"Just restless." Josh shrugged. "I'm not used to sitting much."

"So, you'll be glad to get back to normal . . ."

"Whatever that is . . ."

"It's not the same as it was, Josh," Taylor leaned back against a fence.

"And it never will be." He glared. "Leo called you." 

"Actually," the doctor explained, "he called Abby, who called me."

"I feel loved," Josh said, caustically.

"You should," Evangeline admonished.

"I know." Josh studied the grass as he scuffed it with his toe. "They deserve more," he said quietly. "More than I can give them. Especially Donna." He set his jaw, as if his mind were made up about something. "Tell her I went back to the carriage house, please?"

He felt the bed dip when she joined him but affected sleep, ashamed that he'd not sent her to the other bedroom yet. Soon, he promised himself. Soon, he whispered as sleep overtook him.

He awoke to a faceful of sunlit, flaxen hair. Her smooth, slim leg was thrown across his and her hand covered his heart. How could he throw this away? He shifted, his chest twinged and he remembered. How could he tie her down to him?

He slipped out from beneath her, managing not to disturb her slumber, dressed and set out on his morning walk. The sun was bright and the breeze had already dried the morning dew. He encountered Evangeline Taylor as she walked from the garage to the house, her face drawn, her eyes reddened, medical bag dangling listlessly from her left arm.

"You're out early," Josh paused.

She just nodded, almost passed him, but turned to respond, "Mr. Bascom died this morning. Miss Mary called me over to see to him."

"How old was he?" Josh asked quietly.

"Ninety-five," the doctor answered. "He just ate his breakfast and went out to the porch swing to enjoy the morning."

They stood for several moments, the coo of the mourning dove breaking the silence.

"They'll bring him back to the house tomorrow afternoon so the family can sit with him and the funeral will be Monday," she advised. "Sorry to end your visit like this."

"No," Josh waved off her apology. "You've been . . . He was something special."

Evangeline nodded, footfall heavy as she disappeared into the house. 

Josh stared across the field to the cemetery behind the church, his usual walking path, before returning to the carriage house. Donna's eyes fluttered open and she smiled sleepily when he sat gently on his side of the bed. "Good morning," she murmured.

"'Morning," he said softly. "I have something to tell you."

The hair on the back of Josh Lyman's neck bristled as he stood, back to a corner, in the midst of the large group crowding the antebellum farmhouse. "I didn't know Methodists sat Shiva," he whispered to Donna.

"It's called 'sitting up with the dead,' Joshua," she explained with exaggerated patience, her eyes puffy and red. "And, come to think of it, it's a lot like sitting Shiva."

"Well, except that the guest of honor is here. And the mourners are allowed to bathe, shave and wear leather shoes." He folded down a finger with each point.

"Okay," she conceded, "the only thing sitting with the dead has in common with sitting Shiva is the sitting part."

"Well, there's the recollections." Josh stood before the open casket in the parlor, recalling when his father had died, he'd been in shock, finding it difficult to share the memories he'd secreted away in his heart. But the Yagers seemed to have no difficulty sharing their precious remembrances. Never straying more than a few feet from the bier, even Miss Mary could be caught smiling at some of Mr. Bascom's more outrageous adventures. He'd lived every day of his ninety-five years, it seemed, with joy and relish. And then he died.

Just like me, Josh mused, except I'd be leaving Donna with kids, a mortgage, car payments, tuition. How could I do that to her? The answer was obvious: if I love her, I can't. With a parting word to Mrs. Yager, he walked out into the moonlit night, Donna at his heels.

"Josh?" she called, but he maintained his pace down the road toward the carriage house. He could hear her practically running, heels popping on the pavement. "Josh?" She caught up and walked beside him for a while, serenaded by tree frogs and crickets.

He continued at his brisk pace for a time, but had to slow to a stroll as his breathing became somewhat labored. The moon lit their faces in blue, but failed to disguise the determination in his expression.

Donna studied his countenance, even as they paused in the entryway of the carriage house. "It's not going to happen is it?" she worried with the ring on her finger. "You're never going to let me in, are you?"

"Donna, it's not fair to you . . ." he spread his hands, palms up.

"No, Josh," she removed the ring from her hand, curling his fingers around it before pausing in the half-open door to her separate bedroom. "It's not fair to either of us."

  
  



	10. Covenant

Chapter 10 Covenant

Daylight brightened the windows, finally, the moon having set around four. Josh Lyman welcomed it, as much as he could after the previous night, watching the moon's beams on their journey across his room, the chatter of birds fooled by the lunar light into thinking it was day, and by the sobs from the next room, sobs too soft to be heard, really, but so overwhelming that he could feel their weight splitting his chest again. He swung his feet to the floor, reminding himself, as he had all night, that he'd done The Right Thing. He dressed silently, without having the real need to avoid disturbing any other occupants of his room, then scuffed to the kitchen to start a pot of decaf. Amber vials stood on the counter like sentinels and he selected the appropriate dosage from each, draining a large glass of water in the process of his new morning ritual: medicine then exercise. Alone. He could hear the ancient bed creak as he passed Donna's closed door but the sobbing had finally stopped.

The morning, his last morning here for they were leaving the next day, was cool, the grass damp and the breeze from the direction of the church brought with it the scent of freshly-turned earth. He completed his circuit without interruption and found his packed suitcase, clothes for today and tomorrow excepted, on the luggage stand in his room upon his return. Sipping coffee from a mug, he set it on the sink as he showered, dressing in his own khaki slacks and a shirt, tie and Navy blazer borrowed from Jebose Taylor. Socks were problematic-he still couldn't bend that far without profound discomfort-but he managed them and stepped into his loafers as Donna slipped quietly into the parlor.

"You look nice," he leaned against his door, eying the black pantsuit she'd worn on the plane seemingly forever ago. "You want some coffee? I could . . ."

"Josh," she held up a hand and he froze. "Don't, Josh. Let's just get through this with the minimum of . . ."

He nodded silently then followed her to the waiting vehicle. He'd never been to a Methodist funeral before but was not completely lost, at least during the Old Testament lesson: how many times had he, himself, recited the Twenty-Third Psalm again and again when the pain had been overwhelming? The New Testament lesson had been about righteousness being sown in peace by men who make peace. Then they'd served Communion. Donna had sat beside him, close but not touching him during the entire service. Even when returning from the Communion rail her eyes had remained downcast. When the service ended, and Bascom Yager was carried to his grave on the broad shoulders of his grandsons, she'd remained silent, even as they followed the family into the tree-shaded cemetery. At some point she'd focused on the coffin and he could see tears rolling down her face. Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to her hand while slipping an arm around her waist but she remained stony and unmoving. The silence persisted as they returned to the carriage house where she closed the sturdy door between them.

He changed clothes and sat down to work, the afternoon waning to time for his twilight walk. As he set out across the field, he could see a figure in the cemetery and he found himself walking there, respectfully silent as he joined Mary Yager beside her husband's freshly-mounded grave.

"Over seventy years we were married and I still am gonna miss the old fool," she said wryly from a wooden folding chair partially sunken into the grass.

"That's a long time to be together," Josh responded gently.

"Yes, it was," she agreed, "but you and your Donna will have plenty of time, too . . ."

He shook his head, "She's not my Donna, Mrs. Yager, it's, well, we . . ."

Mary Yager searched his face then returned to her vigil. "We married during the Depression; Bascom went to work for the WPA building the bridge over the Mississippi at Greenville. We lived in one room in a boarding house down by the train depot." She smiled. "One day, it was July and hot as sin, he was working down inside those piers and the man working above him knocked a sledge hammer down the hole. Well, it fell against the scaffolding and it collapsed against the wall, pinning Bascom's leg. It took them five hours to get him out and another five hours to take him to Little Rock. By the time we arrived, the doctors didn't hold out much hope for saving his leg." A whippoorwill sang in the trees. "He tried to send me home, tried to annul the marriage since he wouldn't be able to take care of a family with only one leg."

"What happened?"

"I refused to go. Oh, he kept trying to get rid of me-telling me I'd be better off without him."

Josh shifted his weight, almost impatiently. "What made him change his mind?"

"I finally convinced him that I needed him as much as he needed me."

He helped the widow to her car and walked back to the carriage house by the road. The front door was unlocked and he paused by Donna's still-closed door and, hearing no sound, followed the path to the kitchen. She'd left him a plate in the microwave but he moved it to the refrigerator before gathering his things and showering. The lack of sleep and stress of the day finally set in as he sank back into the soft bed and was soon asleep.

He startled awake to a scream from the next room. Throwing his covers aside, he stumbled out of the bed, chest throbbing, and followed the crying. 

Donna sat bolt-upright in bed, eyes wide but unseeing.

"Donna?" he called from the door and when she didn't respond he crawled into the bed, clasping his hands around her upper arms. "Donna?"

She gasped and her eyes focused on his before she collapsed into him. "Josh?" she panted, pulling his sleep shirt apart and running her hand over the new scar. "You're okay," she soughed. "Thank God you're okay."

"I'm okay, Donna," he leaned back against the headboard and pulled her head into the hollow of his shoulder. "I'm okay."

Her sobs shook the bed, tears falling onto his chest. "I was at Rosslyn," she wept. "All I could see was blood, and you weren't breathing and they came to tell me . . ."

"I'm okay," he lifted her hand and placed it over his cicatrix, "See? I'm fine. Nothing more than a bad dream."

She stared, disbelieving, at the scar, then into his eyes, then back at the mark on his chest. "It was only a dream?"

"Yeah," he smoothed her hair, nuzzling her crown, "only a dream." He relaxed into the mattress pulling her tighter into his embrace. "How long have you been having the nightmares?"

"Josh," she tried to roll away but he held her even closer.

"How long," he pulled her face inches from his, "have you been having the nightmares?"

She buried her face in his shoulder but he lifted her chin again. "How long, Donna?"

Her voice was as soft as fairy's wings. "Since Rosslyn."

He swallowed and hugged her closer, "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me help?"

She tried to hide again but he followed her stare, until she finally spoke, "I was afraid of making you worse."

"Making me worse?" She nodded and he chuckled ruefully. "You're the main person who made me better."

She shuddered, breathing eventually returning to normal while he rhythmically fluttered his hands down her arms. He felt her relax into him and he waited until she must have been asleep before trying to leave. "Josh?" her eyes popped open and she chewed on her lip, "Stay?"

Wednesday morning dawned impossibly bright in Washington, the glare nearly blinding Donna as she peeked out of Josh's window. "There are photographers out there," she warned as he concentrated on fastening the buttons on his dress shirt. She resisted the urge to help. He finished, finally, and stuffed the shirt tails into the pants of his brown suit. He fumbled with the tie for a few minutes before turning to her, sheepishly. With a broad smile she knotted the cravat, arms resting on his shoulders and his arms slung about her waist. "Sleep well?" he nuzzled her hair.

"The best in months, years, really," she admitted.

"So, I am good for something?"

"Joshua, you are good for many things," she studied his mouth.

They kissed, then, arms linked, they braved the media phalanx outside. There were more photographers following them through the White House parking lot. Once inside, they walked directly to their first appointment.

"Welcome, travelers," the President greeted. "I trust you are well-rested from your sabbatical?"

"Yes, sir," Josh replied, wincing from the President's impromptu hug.

"And Donnatella," the President took her left hand between his, "Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now the curmudgeon here," he nodded at Leo McGarry who stood in the open passageway to his office, "insists that he needs you both, post haste, so I must deliver you into his clutches."

"Thank you, Mr. President," they muttered, perching on McGarry's sofa as he closed all the doors.

"So," he pinned Donna with a stare, "did Josh outline the changes to you?"

She nodded, "I'm basically doing the same job but I answer to you instead of Josh."

"Officially," he qualified, "in practice you'll still work together as you always have."

"Thank you, Leo," she fluttered her left hand and the diamond sparkled. "You've been just, well, I don't know what to say . . ."

"Don't mention it," he grinned. "Now, get back to work."

They both stood but he stabbed a finger into Josh's arm. "You stay," he said sharply.

Donna looked at Josh like she was leaving him to a firing squad.

Josh leaned forward with a cringe. "Leo, I don't know how to repay you for everything . . ."

"Don't make us go through this again," McGarry growled.

"I can't promise that, Leo."

"No," he glared, "but you can follow the doctor's instructions this time."

"I know," Josh slumped back. "I've got too much to lose now."

"You always had that much to lose, son," Leo said softly. "You were too, too you to notice."

"I noticed," Josh replied. "It just took me a while to realize that what I thought were roadblocks were only hurdles."

"Welcome to the wisdom of middle age."

"More like desperation," Josh stood. "I've got a mountain on my desk . . ."

"I'll walk with you," McGarry followed him down the hall. "So, did you come back craving cornbread and turnip greens?"

"No," Josh smirked as they rounded the last corner, "but Donna has developed a serious yen for . . ."

A delighted squeal from Donna's office stopped his reply and his motion. He gazed through the glass, face filled with the awe of a man seeing, really seeing, for the first time.

Leo watched his deputy, his friend's son, join his assistant, his partner, in her office. Her face bore a similar awestruck expression while her hand splayed across Andrea Wyatt's now-sizeable belly. Their eyes met then he laid his palm beside hers, studying them, together, slipping an arm around Donna's waist. 

"Someday, Donnatella," he whispered, then covered, sheltered, her hand with his. His hand was strong, but his voice, so close it warmed her cheek, was more than a prayer, it was a covenant, "Someday soon."


End file.
